


come and save me from it

by thestarsarewinning



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, I Don't Even Know, M/M, POV Third Person, Post-Watford (Simon Snow), Sick Simon, Sickfic, Title from a Hozier Song, for now at least, im not sure about but fuck it, there's no fucking tho, there's no kissing in this, which
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 10:23:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20406160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarsarewinning/pseuds/thestarsarewinning
Summary: “Christ, Snow.” Dropping the blanket on the floor, Baz reaches for the next, dragging the blanket away and revealing a knee. “When I left yesterday, all you had was a runny nose.”“And now it’s the plague.”





	come and save me from it

**Author's Note:**

> so, despite trying to write like five other things and having real life things to sort out, i spent too long on tumblr and ended up writing a sick fic
> 
> i am terribly afraid this will be jossed by wayward son and there'll never be soft and domestic snowbaz but for now we're gonna pretend it'll all be fine
> 
> obviously i have no right to anything, i'm just borrowing a few things to play house

There are tissues. All over the floor.

Sure, technically Baz doesn’t live there, it’s still definitely Penelope and Simon’s flat, but he’s certain that this wasn’t the state of the floor when he left yesterday morning. It probably wasn’t the state of things this morning, he thinks, knowing Penelope wouldn’t have allowed such a mess.

They cover from the kitchen area to the sofa to Simon’s room and, shoving his disgust aside, Baz follows the trail, kicking the tissues out of the way to open Simon’s door and rolling his eyes at the scene that greets him.

Simon’s curtains are shut, despite the fact that it’s three in the afternoon of what is actually a rather nice day outside, there’s a million empty mugs and half-drunk glasses of water, his phone is abandoned next to an empty packet of cough sweets, which explains why Simon hasn’t answered any of Baz’s texts, and Simon isn’t actually visible.

He’s there, though, but Baz can only tell because: A) the room still smells like him, and B) the pile of blankets on the bed sneezes. More accurately, it sneezes, coughs a little and sniffs loudly. Baz reaches for the first blanket and pulls it back, exposing numerous others.

“Christ, Snow.” Dropping the blanket on the floor, he reaches for the next, dragging the blanket away and revealing a knee. “When I left yesterday, all you had was a runny nose.”

“And now it’s the plague.” Simon’s voice is muffled but not enough for Baz not to hear him. The self-pitying tone motivates Baz to grab the next blanket, one he recognises as the throw Penelope’s grandmother knitted that usually lives on the back of the sofa, and pull, earning a squawk from Simon as the rest of him finally becomes visible.

He glares at Baz, sniffing and pulling his duvet more tightly around him, but it’s not quite enough. Baz lunges for the duvet, managing to grab the corner before Simon can shift far enough away, and he ignores the pleas of his boyfriend to drop the duvet to the floor, leaving Simon sprawled on the mattress.

Simon burying his face in the mattress, wings and tail visible, pyjama trousers slung low is a sight that makes Baz smile, though he smothers it when Simon cranes his head around, opening one eye to whine, “Why do you hate me?”

“Because, Snow.” Moving to sit on the edge of the mattress, Baz resists the urge to run a hand down the length of Simon’s back and instead rests the back of his hand against Simon’s forehead. Simon’s squinting up at him, though his eyes flutter shut as he brushes the damp curls away from his forehead and he doesn’t see the way Baz grimaces. The brief spike of worry is assuaged, however, when Simon mutters, “Because isn’t an answer, you git.”

He manages not to smile, but it’s a close call and Simon seems to sense it because he shifts closer to Baz, his head ending up more or less in Baz’s lap. Not smiling is a battle Baz loses when Simon looks up at him and sighs dramatically. “I think I might be dying.”

Smiling turns into fighting the urge to laugh and Baz tilts his head back, struggling.

“I’m serious, you know.” Simon’s pouting now, using a tone that simultaneously calls Baz a wanker and asks for his attention, and Baz tries a nod but can’t help the laugh that escapes him. Simon huffs and presses his face into Baz’s jeans. “I’m dying, okay? My head hurts, I’m too hot and cold, I can’t breathe and I have a sore throat.”

“Just think, Snow, all those years I spent trying to kill you, yet it’s the common cold that’ll succeed.” To soften his words, Baz runs his fingers through the back of Simon’s hair, trying not to wince and how warm Simon actually is. “If you want, I can cast a **Get well soon**?”

“It’d be a waste of magic.” Without actually moving, Simon shakes his head, leaving his face pressed against Baz’s leg.

“There’s no such thing, Simon.” He’s left his wand in his jacket, discarded by the door to the flat, but Baz is tempted to find it anyway, and he knows Simon knows what he’s thinking because he finally looks up, all squinty, warning him, “Baz.”

Baz goes back to running his fingers through Simon’s hair and they stay like that for a while, until Simon coughs, jerking upright and coughing so violently Baz almost feels bad for teasing him. He rubs circles into Simon’s back between his wings until he stops, faintly remembering his own mother doing such a thing for him.

He gets his first proper look at Simon when the coughing stops, and he’s all lank hair and dark circles beneath his eyes and a faintly red nose.

Simon seems to wilt under his gaze, his head ducking and shoulders curving forwards, and Baz wants to roll his eyes again. He shifts closer so they’re sat side by side and takes Simon’s hand, squeezing gently. “It’s a good thing I can’t go more than a day without seeing you; you clearly need someone to take care of you.”

His tone is light, aiming for teasing, and Simon snorts, a smile tugging at his features, making Baz feel slightly less like yelling at Penelope for not calling him this morning and telling him his boyfriend was actually sick. Not that it’s actually her job to do that. Whilst she sometimes acts like she’s Simon’s mother, it’s good to remember she actually isn’t.

Simon’s protest of, ‘I don’t,’ is somewhat undermined by him sneezing and then wiping his nose on the hand that Baz, thankfully, isn’t holding, and Baz raises an eyebrow. “Snow.”

It takes a moment, a solid three or so minutes of them staring at each other, Baz’s right eyebrow still raised, Simon’s forehead creased into a frown, before their stalemate ends and Simon sighs. “It’s a good thing you can’t go a day without seeing me then.”

Despite rolling his eyes, Baz wants to smile at the snark Simon manages. He leans into Simon, pressing himself against Simon’s side and allowing himself to smile when Simon leans in too, hiding his face in Baz’s neck, though the moment is ruined somewhat when Simon jumps like he’s been electrocuted, narrowly avoiding headbutting Baz. When Baz reaches for him, he scoots away and it takes everything Baz has not to ask, “What the fuck, Snow?”

Instead, he pushes his hair out of his face and manages a very restrained, “Simon?”

“You’ll get sick too. Not that it’s not nice you’re here but-“

“Vampire, remember?” Baz watches as a fluster of thoughts pass visibly across Simon’s face (a part of him adds the sight to his ‘proof Simon has no poker face whatsoever’ file). When Simon seems to settle on surprised — the cynical part of Baz, the part that freely admits ‘I’m disturbed,’ whenever he has one shot too many, thinks the cause is his willingness to say vampire out loud, which isn’t a frequent occurrence despite Simon’s constant fascination with his fangs — Baz shakes his head and reaches for Simon’s hand once more. “Simon, I haven’t caught a cold since I was four. I’m pretty sure being here won’t change that.”

Simon shakes his head but doesn’t pull away from Baz, and, as far as he’s concerned, that’s a victory in itself.

Before he can say anything, Simon’s cough returns, and Baz thinks about his wand once more, trying to remember any other healing spells, though the only others that come to mind - **Right as rain, An apple a day, A good laugh and a long sleep** \- he’s never tried before. Instead, he thinks back to what he remembers of being sick, to his mother.

What he does remember is clean bedding and fresh pyjamas and tea and cartoons, with toast and ice cream and, for a moment, he’s not sure he wants to share these memories.

It’s Simon, though. It’s Simon, and Baz doesn’t like to speculate but he had a front-row seat to Simon’s childhood and he’s fairly certain Simon has no such memories — the tissues and the blanket cave and the surprise at Baz being there cements his suspicion — and, again, it’s Simon and Baz is pretty sure at this point there’s nothing he wouldn’t do if Simon asked.

Absently, sitting there listening to Simon fail to stifle a sneeze, Baz realises that he knows there actually isn’t.

The thought makes him drop Simon’s hand and try to muster some of the attitude that had gotten Simon to dance not at the leavers ball but at a night club at three am, to let Baz take him home a second time to the hunting lodge and his family, to get him to realise that bovine farming wasn’t a course to try his hand at when attending university in London.

“Go shower, Snow. I’ll clear up this-“ The glance around the room Baz manages before he’s drawn back to Simon surveys the truly impressive number of mugs and glasses- “And you can even choose where we order takeaway from.”

Simon blinks twice but actually stands and heads towards the bathroom, and Baz can’t quite pretend not to be surprised by his success, though any acting he’s managing at all flies out of the window when Simon stops in the doorway and looks at him, tired and quiet. “I’m glad you’re here.”

It’s entirely too genuine when Baz’s breath catches and he has to force himself to shrug and try to sound casual. “Where else would I be, Snow?”

**

They don’t get as far as ordering takeaway.

Simon showers, though it takes him nearly half an hour. The time gives Baz the opportunity to tidy the flat, however, and he manages to hunt down Simon’s collection of unfinished mugs of tea and stale water and vanish them to the cupboards with a **Clean as a whistle** and an **A place for everything and everything in its place**. Simon’s discarded tissues he tackles with an **Into thin air**, and Baz then turns his attention to the mess he made of Simon’s bedding.

There’s a spell he could use, he could try an **As you were** with the help of another **Clean as a whistle**, but he remembers finding his mother had had the sheets changed, fresh bedding and clean pyjamas making him feel just a little bit better.

He searches for Simon’s spare bedding and resorts to stealing Penelope’s when he comes up short, throwing Simon’s bedding in the vague direction of the corner of the room Simon has devoted to laundry and struggling with the fitted sheet. When he hears the shower turn off, he gives in and spells Simon’s nest of blankets clean, or cleaner, dropping them onto the bed after a **Fresh as a daisy**, and then he collapses back onto the mattress, staring up at Simon’s glow in the dark stars they’d spent an afternoon fixing to the ceiling when he and Penelope had just moved in as he waits.

Eventually, Simon emerges from the bathroom, halfheartedly throwing his towel to the laundry corner as he pads back into his room, and, normally, Baz would feel free to leer at a damp and shirtless Simon Snow but he manages to behave, even when Simon strips out of the sweats he’d worn earlier and grabs a pair of pyjama trousers Baz recognises as being from Watford.

Simon drops onto the bed next to Baz, laying on his front and only inches away, and a smile escapes Baz before he can stifle it. Simon smiles in return, but it’s tired and doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and the smile fades when Baz rests the back of his hand against Simon’s forehead. He suffers through Baz’s ministrations, though, which Baz appreciates but he appreciates Simon’s cooperation less when Simon’s response to, “You’re still burning up, Snow,” is the best attempt at a wink he can manage and a, “You’ve always thought I was hot.”

Baz rolls his eyes.

He considers shuffling away from Simon, shifting upright and reaching for a pillow to hit him with, but he is actually warm and his breathing worse than it usually is, mouth breathing tendencies aside. It does occur to Baz that his understanding of ‘warm’ might be a little skewed, given that Simon is always warm compared to him, everyone is, but warm here is warmer than usual, definitely feverish, so, instead of declaring Simon delirious and abandoning him, Baz summons up the patience from somewhere.

“When did you last take any paracetamol? Ibuprofen?”

“It was- I think- Penny threw a box at me this morning, maybe?” Simon strains his read, glancing over the floor briefly before giving up. Baz doesn’t even try, instead reaching for his own wand and, ignoring Simon’s protests, casts, “**Out of nowhere**.”

The box he’s thinking of drops onto the bed between them and Simon scowls as he picks it up, but he takes two pills, swallowing them dry before Baz can intervene. He slumps forwards again then, dropping his head onto a pillow and closing his eyes, and Baz knows what Simon’s thinking.

He knows but, right now, he doesn’t care. “There’s no such thing as a waste of magic, Simon.”

Part of Baz, a small part, the one that watches Love Actually at Christmas every year with Fiona, that learnt to plait hair for Mordelia, that understands the Great Vowel Shift of the Sixteenth century, wants to add ‘not when it’s you’ to that sentence.

When he gets no reply, Baz watches Simon for a moment, watches what he’s pretty sure is Simon feigning sleep, before moving next to him, dragging a blanket up the bed and covering them both with only a little difficulty where Simon’s wings are concerned, which is when Simon reaches for his hand under the covers.

They lie like that for a while but, by now, it’s not an unfamiliar occurrence. The silence is comfortable, unbroken except for the sound of Simon breathing and the faint noise that comes from Simon and Penelope’s downstairs neighbours. They lie like that until Simon moves so his head rests against Baz’s shoulder and asks, “School?”

It takes Baz a second to fill in the rest of the question for himself and now then he grimaces at the memory of the morning’s nine am lecture. “Dull.”

“Fiona?”

“Mad, as always.”

Simon’s eyes close for a moment, his whole face scrunching as he stifles a yawn, and Baz knows not to wait for any further sense out of him. Despite that, he waits until Simon pries one eye open, squinting at him, to ask a question of his own. “Your cold?”

“Better now you’re here.”

“Snow.” Despite the edge to his tone, an edge he’s perfected over time to call Simon a moron without ever having to say it explicitly, and the eyebrow he raises, Baz can’t fight the rush of blood to his cheeks and he’s glad then that Simon’s eyes are closed.

Simon still seems to know, however, seems to have a sixth sense of when Baz manages to embarrass himself, because he slings an arm over Baz’s waist and mumbles something that would have been incoherent if Baz’s hearing wasn’t superior.

**Author's Note:**

> i'd love to see what you guys thought,, leave me a comment?
> 
> also i'm on tumblr as @thestarsarewinning so feel free to come say hi


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